


Write me

by AlisonWrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, But also sexy, Deception, Denial, Depression, Emotional, Eventual Romance, M/M, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:55:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlisonWrites/pseuds/AlisonWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel needs no ghost writer; Dean isn't interested in his story anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Castiel’s first reaction is that of unwanted surprise. This is a man you would expect to work with his hands, not his head. Then again, the man does work with his hands; although carrying what appears to be a laptop bag, his hands chose to pick up nothing but a notepad and a pen. A pencil, actually, and the man clicks the top of the pen to give him some lead to work with.  
“So, would you mind spelling your name for me?”  
“C-A-S-T-I-E-L N-O-V-A-K,” he says, fast, the way he would to new teachers and substitutes in school. It usually took them a few months to get it straight, but the habit of spelling out his name is one he’s sported since he was just a few years old, since before he really learnt the alphabet, and the spelling rolls off his tongue without effort. Already as a youngster, he’d cursed his parents for the permanent disability they had chosen to give him – he’s never had a successful introduction to another human being without having to explain his name. It never leads to a good first impression, no matter the person he’s meeting. After almost 40 years, it’s turned out to be a bore.  
The man holds his pencil a little tilted in his right hand.  
“Yeah, I caught C, could you repeat that?”  
Castiel sighs; this is such a stupid idea, what is he doing here, why did he agree to this? Instead of following his impulse to leave the room, he repeats the spelling, the same way that he has for too many years. The man before him sighs too.  
“Fine, if you don’t want me to spell your name correct, then I won’t.”  
The pencil scribbles down a few letters but the distance between them is a little too wide for Castiel to see what it says. Probably Connor, or maybe Caleb.  
“What’s your name?” he hears himself ask, although he’s not really interested. The man is supposed to work for him, not keep him company. He looks anything but professional, but if there is anything a professional can do, it’s to dress however you’d like. If you’re successful enough, no one will bug you about it. The man is wearing a typical band shirt with a not-so-typical band on it and a pair of loose jeans that seem a little snug when he sits down. The worn spots on the denim look unintentional, as if the jeans have been worn too much instead of having been designed that way. No, he definitely doesn’t look like a professional; Castiel had expected someone in a suit with a portfolio and a fancy pen with a screw-cap and a golden inscription on the side. This guy looks just like his mechanic, although probably 20 years younger and 20 pounds lighter.  
“Dean.”  
The name holds no meaning for him; he’s never known a Dean before. It isn’t particularly pretty, it sounds too much like bean, but the man himself makes up for it. Any woman would be envious of those eyelashes.  
“Nice to meet you,” he mutters.  
“Somehow I don’t believe you.”  
The man wears a mischievous smile and he tentatively meet Castiel’s eyes, most likely knowing that he shouldn’t be cheeky but unable to help himself. Castiel glares at the man.  
“You shouldn’t. This wasn’t my idea and I’d prefer not to have you here, only it’s not an option for me to refuse.”  
“Charming,” the bean, sorry, Dean says. “They warned me you would be difficult.”  
“Difficult? I’m intent on being your worst nightmare,” he retorts.  
“No doubt you’ll succeed.”  
“Oh, I will.”  
“Why?”  
The man catches his eye while asking and Castiel barely keeps himself from turning away.  
“What do you mean, why?”  
“Why don’t you want me here?”  
“It’s none of your business.”  
“It’s all my business. If I’m going to write from your point of view, about you, I’m going to need to know what you don’t want to talk about and why you don’t want to talk about it.”  
Dammit, the man makes sense. Castiel feels his eyebrows force themselves together in annoyance. What he doesn’t want to talk about belongs to him.  
“I don’t want you here because my manager hired you as an alternative to a therapist. I doubt he even wants a book to be written.”  
“So why didn’t he hire a therapist?”  
“He did. They couldn’t handle me.”  
The man snorts and Castiel sends him a hateful scorn.  
“I don’t have any psychological education, I doubt I can help you.”  
“Could you tell my manager so?”  
Dean lowers the pen.  
“Why? So that I’d be out of a job?” He smiles, shakes his head a small no. “Nah, sorry dude.”  
“Come on. Whatever he pays you to be here, I’ll pay you the same to stay away.”  
The pen remains lowered. Castiel wants to keep it from writing a single word.  
“Why? I can write a kickass story about your life and make money out of your thoughts.”  
His eyes are green and they are interested. Castiel finds himself involuntarily responding.  
“I don’t want people to read my thoughts and my life hasn’t been _kickass_ so I most definitely don’t want people knowing everything about it. If I wanted a book about myself, I would’ve written one. And I don’t want strangers like you probing at me to figure out what my issues are.”  
The man leans back on the chair – on Castiel’s chair, in his study, in his home. Infuriatingly enough, Gabriel had wanted the ghost writer on Castiel’s home turf, and in full on rebellion, Castiel had decided to not welcome the writer. At first he’d even sworn to keep the door locked, and he’d given in only minutes before the man was intended to arrive, because no matter how badly he doesn’t want the man here, it had gone against his nature to lock the man outside. When the writer did arrive, with the door unlocked and no one greeting him, the man had been forced to search the house for any inhabitant. Castiel had chosen the study as location, partly because it’s on the second floor, as far from the door as possible and would thus force the man to search around the house for hopefully a long time, and partly because working in the study explains itself. They are scheduled to spend an hour and a half a day, weekends excluded, to form a manuscript of Castiel’s biography and not a bone in his body is eager. When the footsteps in the staircase had been heard, it had taken him great strength not to lock the study door, and after opening and closing the doors to all of the other rooms, Dean had finally reached Castiel. It had been an unspoken ‘I don’t want you here’ and ‘I don’t want to be here either’ look exchanged between them, that is, before they opened their mouths and actually said similar words out loud. Now, Castiel’s even more certain that he wants the man gone; who would willingly help people sell their thoughts and their only privacy for money? The man is a crossroads demon, helping people sell their soul to the devil, and he himself is intent on not selling anything. How ironic that he himself wants to avoid bloodsuckers, when he’s built his own life on journalism.  
“So, let me get this straight, you have issues that I’m here to work out, rather than to write? Why wasn’t that in my job description?”  
“Why would I know? I’m not the one who hired you.”  
“You hired your manager.”  
“I should fire him.”  
A silence spreads between them. The ghost writer stares at him as if Castiel’s outsides will tell whatever is on his insides, and Castiel can feel himself move in displeasure. Finally, he returns the stare.  
“I won’t write anything you don’t want me to,” the man says, his voice ringing clear in the silence of the large house. “This doesn’t have to be a biography, it could be about anything, frankly, it doesn’t even have to end up as a book. We’ll give it a few weeks and get back to your manager and tell him the stuff’s real boring and won’t sell. What’s he gonna do, write a book himself if we don’t? Hardly. He might be a little pissed, but when I talked to him, he already seemed to be.”  
Castiel feels his eyebrows drift apart again, the tension in his forehead lessening, the tension inside his head loosening at this new proposal. Gabriel had the man sent here to write down whatever Castiel had to say, meaning that he can dictate a full on fictive story and get away with it. He will be mad, that’s for sure, since Gabriel is at his wit’s end, trying to make his brother/employer open up, but who cares? He’s always mad these days and Castiel has the uncomfortable feeling that it might be his fault.  
“Fine. So, where do we start?”  
“What do you want me to write?”  
“I don’t know.” His shoulders shrug. “Write whatever you want to.”  
And there it is again, only more intense: interest. The green eyes focus on him as if trying to determine whether he’s serious or not. Castiel involuntarily moves about in his own chair a second time. Being scrutinized by this stranger is about as enjoyable as having his head and thoughts displayed in public.  
“You would pay me to write whatever I want?”  
“Fine, yeah, whatever.”  
“Really?”  
“Yeah, really.”  
Involuntarily – again, because he can’t seem to control himself – Castiel watches as disbelief and elation flickers across the man’s face.  
“Is that hard to believe? Why?” he hears himself ask, although he wishes he wasn’t interested in the answer. He shouldn’t be; all he needs to care about is that his own problem is solved. Yet, when the man allows his smile to widen and a row of even, white teeth shows, he can’t help but to need to know what it is that causes him such joy.  
“I thought I was destined to write other people’s stories all my life,” the man says. He turns to a new page absentmindedly, watching it for a few seconds, then smiles to himself. The pen in his hand comes to life and jots down words in a sudden hurry, and Castiel watches him for a few minutes. How the man manages to see what he writes through those thick lashes is a mystery, but nonetheless, he scribbles on as if he’s unobserved. After about a half-hour, Castiel gets the memo. He’s not needed.  
“Coffee?”  
He’s actually quite polite deep down, when people aren’t forcing him to do stupid things, and Dean momentarily looks up from his paper, sharing eye contact as whatever train of thought he was just on disappears.  
“Coffee?” he repeats and Castiel feels himself smile at how lost in thought the man is.  
“Yeah, you want some?”  
“Yeah, thanks man.”  
“Cream or sugar?”  
“Neither.”  
So the bean drinks his coffee black. Castiel dances down the stairs, relieved to finally resume his life in privacy, and he gratefully fills Dean’s cup with coffee to the brim, places a few snacks on a plate for him, barely keeps himself from preparing a tray with utensils, napkins, food and candles on, because the man has solved his problem. No one will read a book about him, not even Gabriel, not even the ghost writer himself. He’s still all to himself.

\---

The manager had been right; Castiel is anything but cooperative. Apparently, it’s why he wanted Dean in the first place. He’d asked for the most stubborn writer, which practically equals to Dean, because the man has no natural talent what so ever, barely any education in how to properly write, hardly an imagination, yet he manages to produce stories that can knock socks off. If his success, albeit a small one, is due to anything – it’s due to him being one stubborn sucker. Anyone would say that the man is not cut out to be a writer, in fact, his own publicist would say so too, and yet he’s managed to so called ghost write quite a few successful biographies. Too bad his own name is never on the book back, but no one is interested in what he has to say – they’re only interested in the people he writes about. Therefore, going to this man’s place to write about yet another small celebrity, is a reluctant affair that he wouldn’t go through with if he had a choice. To sit and coax out the life story of an old journalist who doesn’t want to talk – he’s had better work days, even when he wrote about a soap opera star and how her breast operation had failed.  
It begun bad, worse than he had expected it to. The door had been open so he’d let himself in, but no matter how often he’d called out, no one had come to meet him, and finally he’d searched the bloody place, fearing he’d gone to the wrong house. The man had clearly expected him and had apparently enjoyed making a fool out of Dean by not even showing the decency to greet him at the door, and from then, Dean had spent their conversation longing back to the soap opera woman and her stories of her miserable breasts. At least her tongue hadn’t been razor sharp.  
So when the man had told him to write whatever he wanted, Dean had at first not believed him. No, he had heard incorrectly. But when the man insisted, Dean had chosen not to wait for him to change his mind, and when the man had remerged with coffee and crackers and grapes, he had looked straight into the man’s face to search for any catch, only, the man had smiled politely and asked whether he could retire to his bedroom, and Dean had found no words; all he could do was nod.  
The alarm in his pocket goes off, marking that the 90 minutes are up, and he swipes his thumb across the screen to shut it off. The message says “You survived”, as he this morning had felt a little morbid while planning his day, and he can’t help but to think that the day turned out way better than predicted. He takes a last swig of the coffee, glad to for once drink quality coffee and not the crappy instant stuff he somehow thought wise to try out, before packing his notes down. A part of him wouldn’t mind leaving the house before Castiel is to return from whatever nook he has hidden himself in, but since they are to meet tomorrow again, and the rest of the week, and probably more weeks to come, he decides to at least say goodbye. The grapes were nice after all. So he leaves the study to look around the corridor that leads to rooms he’s only glanced into quickly; a few bedrooms, probably guest rooms, a library, a bathroom. Which is Castiel’s?  
Then he remembers the ruffled bed in the room opposite of the study. The bed had been positively windswept and intimate, and he had closed the door quickly, fearing an undressed person would look up from beneath the sheets and wonder who the hell he was and how he dared to sneak around their house. He takes the few steps to the end of the corridor, lifts his hand and knocks. Something on the inside moves.  
“Yes?”  
“My time’s up.”  
“Great.”  
The voice sounds a little too happy, probably longing to throw Dean out the house, and he feels the sting of being poorly treated without a reason as it hits home.  
“Thanks for the coffee,” he says, more to remind himself that the man did him good.  
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” the voice replies and Dean stares at the door, a little puzzled by having to talk through an object.  
“Am I to come here tomorrow?”  
Thankfully, the door opens at this. The men end up so close that both of them take a step back. Castiel has sleep mussed hair and a face wearing clear annoyance.  
“Yes, my brother has a tendency to check up on things to make sure that he isn’t defied, the way we are currently defying him, so it’s necessary for you to be here at all appointed times.”  
“Mr Novak is your brother?”  
“You didn’t get that? We share last name.”  
“I didn’t catch your last name.”  
At this, Castiel watches him with such judging eyes that he has to look away, and when Dean’s sight flips downwards, he has to look away again. The man is wearing nothing but striped pyjama bottoms.  
“Castiel Novak, C-A-S-T-I-E-L N-O-V-A-K,” he says, loud and slowly. “But I’m expecting you not to write it down.”  
“I won’t,” he says and can’t help but to smile.  
“Good. Tomorrow, then.”  
Dean nods, taking the cue, and hurries down the stairs and out. His Impala is waiting, the only investment that he has been comfortable spending money on with his unreliable income, and he sinks into the driver’s seat. The leathery smell is everything to him after having spent over an hour in that house; somehow, it seemed Castiel’s original hostility had seeped into the air of the building. He speeds off, hoping the man won’t have changed his mind by the time he arrives tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Of course Castiel hasn’t changed his mind about the deal they agreed upon yesterday; it fits him perfectly. If Gabriel demands to see some results from this therapeutic idea of his, he wants thickly with notes around as proof of their productivity, and if needed, he might even scribble down a few things himself to prove his own interest in the subject. It seems to make his brother happy whenever Castiel puts effort into recovery, even if the effort isn’t wholehearted. To say that Castiel has interest in this rescue project would be to lie – he’s only interested in keeping his brother at bay. The entire idea of having his story told is absurd and Gabriel knows so too, but at least he’d been open about the truth – how the book is merely an excuse to help Castiel put his experiences into words and possibly find some closure. It does sound reasonable, although a little optimistic. His brother has always been an incurable optimist; it’s unfair how he received all positive genes when Castiel could use one about now. They’re exact opposites, which is why Gabriel has ended up carrying both of them lately, and Castiel doesn’t have it in his heart to fail at another of Gabriel’s attempts at resurrecting him from his walking dead state. God knows how many attempts he’s come up with; the specialists, the psychiatrists, the therapists, the psychologists (does anyone even know what the difference is?); not to mention the light therapy, the medications, the time he fixed a personal trainer to lure some endorphins into his brother, that time when they attempted (and failed bitterly) to self-medicate each other on alcohol and fast food; the travels, the expensive massages, the prostitutes, the hobbies; to say that Gabriel gives up easily on his brother would be a lie. To say that Castiel gives up on himself easily would be an understatement; the second an attempt seems to malfunction, he can’t help but to return to his old habits – sleeping, staying in bed, eating in bed, being in bed, barely being at all and yet not not-being enough. But not today. Today, he’ll be and live and take part; today he’ll be the perfect hostess for the writer, as this poor fellow has to pretend to write the most boring biography of the century, while also lying to his employer. The more he thinks about it, the more Castiel realizes how grateful he ought to be of the man’s cooperation.  
The door is unlocked again, but this time, Castiel calls out to him from the nearby kitchen when he hears the door open. Careful to have made a pot of coffee in time for his arrival, he pours a cup full when Dean enters through the kitchen doorway. He seems newly awake with freshly washed hair and there are drops of water lingering over the brim of his shirt, leaving a few wet patches on the light fabric.  
“Good morning,” the man coaxes, his voice not quite awake yet, and Castiel feels his stomach lurch. The man reminds him of a predatory animal, a lion maybe, yawning and exposing never ending teeth on Animal Planet.  
“Coffee?”  
“God, yes.” The man smiles and reveals perfectly human teeth. “I hope I’m not too early.”  
“I believe you’re a little late, actually,” Castiel says as he motions for the chair on the opposite side of the table.  
Dean grimaces as he sits down.  
“Really? Sorry, I-“  
“Don’t apologize. You understand the arrangement, I hope?”  
The man looks puzzled.  
“Gabriel thinks he’s the one helping me but we’re flipping the tables, because I don’t need any help. I’ll pay you to write whatever you want and to pretend that I’m excited about it although I won’t actually partake in anyway, and by doing so, we will be making Gabriel happy. Call it a charade, if you will.”  
For someone who’s just awoken, Dean seems all ears. No doubt he’s never had such a twisted job before; keeping up a charade for money.  
“Cool… But are you sure I can’t actually help you, the way I’m meant to? I’m a pretty good listener, even if I don’t write any of it down.”  
“That won’t be necessary, I’m fine.”  
“You said none of the therapists could handle you.”  
“Oh, you remembered that?”  
Dean blushes but doesn’t reply.  
“Yes, none of them could handle me, so you stand no chance.”  
“I could try.”  
“I don’t want you to try.”  
“Alright then.”  
“Anyway, Gabriel’s a smart thing, so we’re going to need a plan. If he asks about the book, you’re going to give no specifics. No, wait, say that we have a few ideas to choose from and that we’re outlining them or something.”  
“Alright.”  
“If he asks about me, for the love of God, don’t exaggerate. If you tell him that I’m confiding in you or talking or sharing stuff, he’s going to see straight through the entire thing. Tell him I’m a stubborn sucker who won’t let you in and who keeps shooting down your every attempt at getting to know me.”  
“That won’t be difficult.”  
Castiel glares at the man but can feel his lips pull into a grin.  
“But give him some hope or something. No, not hope, I don’t want him to get disappointed, but tell him I show some interest or something, that I sit and listen to your ideas or that I discuss stories or something, anything, that would make him glad.”  
“He’d be happy to hear that you’re _listening_ to me?”  
“Yeah.”  
“So what, you don’t listen to people normally?”  
“I don’t meet people normally.”  
“Right.”  
Castiel swallows the last of his coffee, praying he won’t have to explain how sick he is of people and how he never wants to meet up with anyone voluntarily, but Dean doesn’t push the topic. Instead, he pulls out the same notepad as yesterday.  
“Can I work in here?”  
He’s about to object but changes his mind.  
“Sure, wherever, feel like home. We’re sticking to this routine until I tell you otherwise. If you need me, I’ll be upstairs.”  
Not waiting for a response, Castiel places his empty mug in the sink and dashes out the room. His social quota is more than fulfilled even though they’ve spoken for less than five minutes.  
What does surprise him is his own enthusiasm, but making his brother happy has always been his sole motivation to any form of recovery, and experiencing some enthusiasm and pretending to be better is worth it if he’s allowed to see Gabriel smile a little more often. Yet, closing the door behind him and collapsing back into bed, a single thought breaks through all of the others. _This won’t last._ It never does. Enthusiasm can come for a few hours and then leave; at most, it stays for a few days. Whenever Gabriel catches a glimpse of him in this state, in this eager, energetic state, he believes it to finally have happened – that Castiel has found his way back to his old self and that he’s somehow found the strength to keep the negatives away. It’s almost comical, how many times Castiel has plummeted back into darkness, and how Gabriel can still think it possible for him to crawl out into the light; as if the hole isn’t miles deep without a single ladder to climb. The many therapists had come to different conclusions; the most popular one was clinical depression brought on by his hectic work, but although retiring from his job, his mental health hadn’t replenished as they expected it to. Someone had discussed a burnout and he had fully related to the description of emotional exhaustion, but it gave him nothing. None of the treatments worked, no matter what diagnosis they labelled him with, and finally Gabriel gave up on the doctors too, explaining his somewhat unorthodox resurrection projects of late. Last time, he’d bought Castiel a guitar after having read an article about the psychologically healing effects of music, together with a gift card on 20 guitar lessons, but Castiel only went to one. The teacher had a nasty habit of mumbling existential song lyrics and Gabriel had called the teacher that night, wondering who the hell it found it appropriate to sing about death in front of someone suicidal. Poor woman couldn’t have known. Not that Castiel sees himself as suicidal; question is if he would be able to motivate himself enough to even attempt taking his own life. No, lying down and forgetting to eat is so much simpler, and frankly, it’s the only thing he truly wants to do. That, and making Gabriel happy, which is quite contradictive. Somehow he’s found a balance in it: some days he spends lying about without eating or drinking, only getting up to use the bathroom or having an occasional cup of coffee; other days he fully focus on Gabriel’s projects and pretends to genuinely take them seriously, only to make him glad. They’re both aware that it’s a game of pretend, but both play it so perfectly, with such precision, that Gabriel really seems to believe it to be working, and that Castiel really seems to try.  
But sometimes their mutual denial slips. It happens that Castiel cannot force smiles and act excited, and it happens that Gabriel shows his sorrow and his diminishing hope at ever seeing his brother alive again. The sick thing is that pretending has gotten easy with the years. At times they broach the subject of their own pretence, but both know that breaking their habit will only make them more miserable, and therefore they don’t. All they have is this balancing act, Gabriel on the sane side, Castiel on the insane side, and neither wants to let go, but Castiel can sense himself ruining his brother just as much as his brother is helping him. The little stability they have won’t last. Maybe that’s why Gabriel searches so frantically for any solution these days, because he knows their time is running out?  
Oh, what’s the use of wondering? If they run out of time, if he tips the scales and pulls Gabriel down into the hole, they’re both doomed, and no time in the world will make that bearable. If Gabriel pulls a magic wand out of his ass and manages to make Castiel mentally functional again, then everything will have worked out blissfully. This is just another one of his half-hearted attempts at climbing back into life and the ghost writer and his wet hair is barely a part of the equation. If this lasts for more than a week, he should plan some form of celebration – because truly, hoping for it to last is hoping for a miracle.  
Castiel forces his face into the pillow. It has to last. Gabriel is running out of optimism, which never happens, and if that isn’t reason enough to get a grip, then nothing is. It has to last this time. He can’t let his brother down more times or he’ll risk darkening more skies than his own.

\---

The kitchen is unusually homey for such a designer house; the atmosphere is calm enough for Dean to forget that he’s working. Only once lunch is approaching and his stomach starts to sound is he pulled back to reality. Christ. His phone must have gone off a thousand times without his notice. Without Castiel’s notice.  
His first reaction is to bolt from the chair, ready to sprint out the house and speed away, hoping the man won’t notice how his already unwanted guest has overstayed, but he stops himself in action. Even Sam would tease him about being immature if he were to leg it now; Sam, who’s an adult child. So he forgot about time, big deal, better man up about it instead. He forces the notepad into his bag and slings it over his shoulder, wishing for some music to give him strength to meet the peculiar man. Yesterday, Castiel had been a rain cloud with thunderbolts waiting beneath his skin and then in a flash, he’d turned into nice, even… Polite. An hour later, the man had turned into a mixture of both, like those days when it rains in the sunshine and the weathermen curse. Today… He’d been effective. Even passionate, as if all of his earlier anger towards his brother had turned into affection in a heartbeat. And just as Dean was starting to grow comfortable with their conversation, treading lightly on each topic as to not step on one of Castiel’s thousand emotional toes, the man had deflated from the effort and left. Frankly, he could do the same – just leave. Tomorrow’s appointment will be all the same whether he says goodbye or not. The man might even believe Dean has left already.  
So when he finds himself making new coffee, washing some of the grapes that he indulged so shamelessly in yesterday and later walking up the stairs with a cup in one hand and a plate in the other, he’s quite perplexed with himself. It’s not that he’s a selfish person – well, he is, but that’s not the point – it’s that he’s rarely the one to care for others. Protecting others is no problem, but caring is something else, something he has saved for family members and close friends. Castiel is neither; he’s barely more than a stranger. He cradles the two items into one hand as to knock with his other, and the shuffling sound from the inside is identical to what he heard yesterday, but the door opens instantly this time. Castiel looks too awake to have been asleep.  
“You’re still here.”  
“I lost track of time.”  
“Oh.”  
“Grapes?”  
Castiel focuses his eyes on the plate and plucks a grape to plop into his mouth. Dean can’t take his eyes of the chaotic hair.  
“Don’t you have somewhere to go? I mean, after you were done here.”  
He does, actually, he should be at his publicist to get her latest critique, but somehow the thought isn’t appealing. Another grape disappears into Castiel’s mouth, only a step away from his own, and that is appealing.  
“No.”  
Castiel’s fingers hesitantly accept the cup.  
“No coffee for you?”  
“I thought you would want me to leave.”  
“Nonsense,” he protests and Dean can’t tell if he means it or not. Perhaps. “Get yourself a cup.”  
He obeys, taking the moment in the kitchen to shut his phone off to keep his publicist from interfering with his afternoon. Not sure whether to go back upstairs or to wait downstairs, since Castiel probably doesn’t want to hang out in his bed but rather on the couch down here, he lingers by the base of the stairs. With no sign of change, he finally walks back up.  
The man lies fallen across the bed; his body as limp as a ragdoll. The plate of grapes is on a nearby chair, the cup of coffee on his bedside table, and Dean stops in the doorway while wishing he knew the correct way to go about. Somehow noticing the new presence within the room, Castiel turns around and sits up, the hair as disordered as his head, and when the man nods towards the space besides him in the bed, Dean can’t help himself but to climb in without as much as a doubt. There’s a bedside table on his side too and he places his own cup there, wondering what on Earth can possibly come from this, what did he just agree to, but Castiel is untouched by any fears. The man leans forward, placing the plate between them and plucking a grape before lying back down and stretching his body as fully as he can. He makes no suggestive movements, in fact, he makes no movements at all but only lies there with his still eyes turned to the ceiling. Dean tries to do the same, to relax and not think, but when Castiel’s body rolls closer and the plate is tipped over and they’re lying so close, he’s anything but relaxed. The polite, disordered, passionate storm cloud by his side hinders all his thoughts from being coherent and suddenly he finds that not thinking is the easiest thing in the world. They lie still while their coffee turns cold.

\---

This, not the rest of his house but only right here, is his home turf. Here he can be, just be, without feeling like a waste, and when Dean stood on the doorstep, it hadn’t felt awkward at all to invite him in too. It hasn’t occurred to him before that he might want to share this safety with someone, and it does sting, to know that Gabriel most certainly would’ve realized the magnitude of being allowed in here, whereas this stranger might find it weird. He should have done this with his brother first; showed him this thoughtless place where he spend all his time; show him how this bed makes life bearable, one hour at a time. But no, he’s confiding in a stranger rather than his sibling, what a perfectly normal thing to do.  
His thoughts are interrupted by a low snore. They’ve been lying down for what must be quite some time, so for Dean to fall asleep first now must be a good sign. At least he had the respect to remain awake for the first hour or so.  
His head has lolled down, his chin is resting on his own chest and an unflattering double chin has appeared from out of nowhere. A slight 5 o’clock shadow is starting to show. The room is still basked in light from the large window to their right, but it’s summertime, so the sun is likely to be up until late evening and will give him no clue as to what time it is. It could be dinnertime; it might even be morning.  
Another snore, this one slower and a little louder, and Castiel finds himself observing Dean with a newfound interest. The man is obviously tired. Should he let him sleep? Would waking him up now, compared to having him wake up later, make a difference? He’s bound to be embarrassed anyway.  
And he is. Before Castiel can reach a decision, the man has forced his sleepy eyes open and they share what could be a millisecond or a minute of eye contact before the man blushes underneath his stubble. He’s about to deliver an apology and Castiel shakes his head a no, popping a grape into his mouth from the plate they forgot about earlier. Dean’s lips close again without having uttered a word, only to reopen.  
“I have to leave.”  
Castiel nods but remains silent, popping another grape.  
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
The man hesitantly crawls out of Castiel’s bed, glances around the room in a moment of disorientation and walks out the door without looking back.


	3. Chapter 3

He fell asleep in a stranger’s bed.  
Not that such a scenario hasn't occurred before, only, sleep has rarely been involved in those cases. Not like now. Not like sharing a bed with a male stranger just to sleep. Not like wakening up to blue irises staring at you as if trying to decrypt every lie you've ever told. His chest had stirred and grown heavy, watching the man wrapped up so intimately in sheets, and it had been a must for him to flee at that moment, or he would’ve done something stupid such as asked if he could stay for the night or if the man wanted to have dinner sometime. Sam’s right; he searches for trouble wherever he goes. It has led to some great dramatic (unfortunately unpublished) pieces over the years, since he had so much experience to use as inspiration, but this is a job he can’t afford to fuck up. His very own book. There has never been enough time to finish one of his own; his bookshelves are filled with books that he’s written but not a single one is based off of his own head. They’re all about other people, other people’s dreams, other people’s stories – now he’s finally granted paid time to write his own words down. The last thing he needs is to have a fleeting relationship with the man who’s indirectly paying him, and thus end up screwing the entire deal.  
He’d turned his phone back on in the car without great expectations. His publicist had been furious, but that wasn’t a surprise; isn’t she always? However, Mr Novak, ‘Call me Gabriel’, had left a message asking him to call as soon as possible, and Dean had called him back while driving home, a feeling of nerves upsetting his stomach. How would he talk about what happened when he himself has no idea what happened? Gabriel had picked up on the second tone and given him no time to prepare.  
“Dean, yes, how are you?”  
He had resisted the urge to reply well rested.  
“I’m alright, thanks, and you?”  
“I don’t have time to chat so I’m just going to ask; how are things going? Is he an insufferable brat? I apologize thoroughly for putting you through this, frankly, you ought to have a raise.”  
Realizing he hadn’t given the man a chance to answer, Gabriel had fallen quiet. When it comes to Castiel, the man seems at no loss for words.  
“It’s… Been interesting.”  
“Interesting? Please tell me he hasn’t given you instructions on what to tell me.”  
He has.  
“He hasn’t.”  
“Yeah, he has, don’t lie to me. But tell me, is it too much? If it is, I can get another.”  
Another; as if he’s an object. As if he would pass up on this opportunity.  
“It’s fine, really.”  
“Please, not that word, if there is any word I never want to hear again, its fine. Fine no longer means fine, it means the opposite, everyone knows that. He’s that bad, huh?”  
“No, I mean it, he’s… We’re good. He’s a little…” Moody. Temperamental. Difficult. Better pick his words carefully. “Unpredictable. We chatted and, sure, he’s reluctant to the idea but he’s not dismissive, if you get it?”  
“He’s not dismissive?” Gabriel repeats, and Dean thinks of how Castiel invited him into bed.  
“Well, at least not all the time. I stayed a little longer today and he didn’t seem to mind.”  
“That’s… That’s good. He hasn’t insulted you?”  
“No.”  
“Not at all?”  
“Well, he didn’t exactly want me there to begin with, but he’s not unpleasant. Anymore.”  
“I’m going to need lessons from you, man. Whenever I’m around, he turns into a cactus.”  
“You’re his brother.”  
“True.”  
“He… He said that you don’t actually expect a book to be written.”  
“Not really, no.”  
“So what am I to do? Am I his nanny or something?”  
“No, just… Pretend to write his book. Keep it up like a, a charade. Try to make him show interest, use the book as an excuse to be around and engage him in things, I don't know. I could hire someone else if-“  
“No, that won’t be necessary, I’ll keep it up.”  
“Really?”  
“Yeah, I have a brother of my own, I get it.”  
“You do? Is your brother depressed too?”  
Dean falls silent.  
“Dean?”  
“No, Sammie’s not… I mean, I get that you’ll do anything to make him happy. I’m sure Castiel would do the same.”  
Gabriel had thanked him meticulously and asked to receive an update once in a while before hanging up without saying goodbye. Somehow, Dean’s hint about the two-way charade must have escaped the man. The two brothers had sounded identical when discussing their schemes – both intent on making the other happy via some farfetched plan of deceit. It sounds like typical sibling love; natural and self-explanatory but still a tangled mess. He had called Sam as soon as he got home, for some reason longing to hear that annoying voice of his.  
When he enters the house the next day, Dean searches the bottom floor with one thought cruising through his head: _behave_. No ending up in bed together today; all he has to do is stay in the kitchen or the study and possibly try to converse a little. Coffee is ready and waiting for him, and while he pours, the sound of a shower goes on somewhere above him. The house must be scarcely sound isolated and he recalls how he ran around the house, shouting hello, only the other day. Castiel must have heard him all along. Douchebag.  
He takes a seat by the table and starts to read yesterday’s notes, but his head is stuck on the topic of Castiel. Is he supposed to entertain Castiel in some way, the way a nanny would keep kids occupied? How did he get this job? Who will he be today? The douchebag or the hostess? Does he love or hate his brother today? And furthermore, should he know about Gabriel and the phone call?  
“Hello Dean.”  
The voice isn’t particularly happy and the writer takes a breath before looking up at Castiel. Somehow he didn’t hear the shower fall silent. The man is barely dressed with only a towel hanging on his hips and Dean can feel himself ogle the towel, the bare stomach, the chest, before reaching Castiel’s eyes. They look surprised, a little off guard, somewhat amused – those eyes are more expressive than Castiel could ever be with words.  
“When did you get here?”  
“When you got in the shower.”  
He has water on his chest and it trickles down his stomach. Dean’s unable to keep his eyes from following the water’s movement and he jerks his head down when the man clears his throat. _Behave, dammit_.  
“Pardon me, I didn’t mean to distract you when you work,” the man says with a playful tone and turns to leave the kitchen. Dean finds himself unable to form a witty comeback, and when Castiel glances over his shoulder, Dean curses himself for blushing. To regain whatever is left of his dignity, he flips open a new page onto which he dots down words. Depressed, Gabriel had said, but if anyone were to ask Dean what Castiel’s problem might be, he would’ve referred to the many personalities the man has presented so far, especially this smug one.  
The paper is almost filled with random scribbles when the staircase sounds again. The man has gotten dressed in a pair of black slacks and a shirt, and he enters the kitchen while busy rolling the sleeves up. Dean begs his face not to blush again.  
“Do you want eggs?”  
“No, thanks.”  
Silence.  
“How’s the book coming on?”  
“Are you interested?”  
“No.”   
Dean makes a mental note to force Castiel to read the book once it’s finished, if only to end up wowing the man.  
“Gee, thanks for the support.”  
“I pay you to pretend I’m interested, remember?”  
“Your brother pays me.”  
“Have you spoken to him?”  
“Actually, I have.”  
Castiel turns from the stove.  
“What’d he say?”  
“He wants me to keep up with the book as an excuse to be here. A charade.”  
“A charade? He said that?”  
“I know, great minds think alike.”  
The comment sounds a little too sarcastic and Dean bites down on his lips, wishing he could take it back. Castiel’s eyes grow hostile for a second and he stops moving as if a thought has just hit him.  
“So, wait… He hired you to babysit me. Fantastic. Closure, putting things behind me, venting my thoughts, ha, he just wanted someone to keep track of me when he’s not around.” The man seems oblivious to Dean’s presence but keeps talking to him. ”And you have no problem with that? With babysitting a grown man? Dammit, I should’ve never agreed on this.”  
“You agreed on this?”  
“Of course I did, he described this-“ Castiel gestures between the two of them “-as some form of therapeutic process, not like day care. I’m going to have him fire you immediately.”  
“What? Why?”  
“I’m a grown man, I don’t need a nanny.”  
“But…”  
“But?”  
“Then I won’t get the chance to write.”  
“Sure you will, you’re a bloody author, all you do is write.”  
“Not my own things.”  
The erratic scurrying back and forth on the kitchen floor stops.  
“You mean… Oh shoot, how did this end up so complicated?” Castiel plops down on the opposite chair. “Let’s sort this out, once and for all. Gabriel wants me supervised and/or to vent my feelings. I want Gabriel happy, which he would be if I was supervised and/or vented my feelings. What is it that you want again?”  
“To write my own book.”  
“And you would be able to do so if you supervised me.”  
“Exactly.”  
“Which means that I’m almost 40 years old and have a babysitter. Christ, I really am pathetic.”  
“You’re not gonna fire me?”  
“And make both you and Gabriel unhappy? No, I think I can live without dignity if he’s happy.”  
“That’s the spirit.”  
Uncharacteristically enough, the man chuckles. The soft sound rumbles out from the bottom of his stomach and Dean watches mesmerized as the man hides his face in his hands, as his shoulders move, until the laughter slows and quiets. His hands remain like a shield and Dean can only just make out the words he mutter beneath his breath.  
“I really am pathetic.”  
The shoulders have stilled and for a moment, Dean fears they might start moving again, but not with laughter.  
“For wanting to make your brother happy?”  
The hands slide down, allowing Castiel’s eyes to glare at him over his fingertips.  
“I didn’t talk to you.”  
The man stands up and leaves the kitchen and Dean watches him go, not daring to stop him.

\---

Pathetic is just one of the many things he is. Pitiful, sad, inconsolable Castiel. It’s impressive that Gabriel doesn’t vomit at the sight of him, or Dean for that matter; they’re the only ones who are currently forced to habitually look at him. He should send them apology cards.  
He pulls the duvet over his head and presses his face into the mattress, despite the objecting pain in his nose. About right now, Gabriel would be nagging him to think positively, maybe to try one of the mantras that a therapist had gone on and on about, and he rolls himself up in the duvet like a human burrito. Fine.  
 _My brother doesn’t want me to have a babysitter, he wants me to have a friend to confide in. He wants me to open up. He wants me to ventilate and to let out all of the secrets that he believes I carry around and to become happy, the way he believed therapy would help me. He wants to help. He wants to help. Help, because I’m his brother and apparently he loves me._  
But it doesn’t feel like it. Gabriel is at the end of his rope. Simply employing someone to keep his little brother entertained and a little civilized is an easy way out. He’s employed a nanny, disguised as a ghost writer of all things, to make sure his 40 year old little brother Castiel gets up in the morning, has an appointment to wake up to, has someone to talk to, to make sure that Castiel isn’t hoarding pills for a special occasion or buying new razor blades without shaving. The classical “I’m trying to help you” when the help only benefits the giver, not the receiver. It’s disgusting.  
But how can he refuse? To send Dean away would be easy, but didn’t he just the other day decide not to fail Gabriel again?  
As if he hasn’t made that promise before. And broken it.  
He should send Dean away. He should disappoint Gabriel right now instead of delaying his pain. He should hoard those pills and buy those razors, because who’s the real problem here, who’s the common denominator in the tangled mess, who’s the reason for Dean being here and Gabriel making up projects and for all of the pain?  
Castiel sighs into the mattress, swiping at the tears that started streaming somewhere along his train of thoughts. Great, now he’s feeling sorry for himself too, even better. Simply lying around in apathy has more dignity than this, than crying and wallowing in self-hatred. He dabs the duvet to his eyes and blinks, determined to reinvent his walking dead persona, because it’s the only way he can stand himself. The least he can do if he’s to be depressed and/or burned out is to stop crying.  
The knock arrives a while later. He sits up, still wrapped inside the duvet, and clears his throat.  
“What?”  
Dean must be uncomfortable from their previous meeting, because he can’t seem to find a response. Finally, Castiel drags himself out of bed and waddles over to the door. He opens it despite being dressed as a burrito and whatever discomfort the writer was experiencing, it evaporates.  
“Nice dress.”  
“Thanks.”  
“Who said you can’t be comfy and pretty simultaneously?” Dean says and grins. The smile wavers when he realizes the meaning of what he just said and Castiel doesn’t hide his chuckle. “I mean-“  
“What do you want?”  
They stand a little too close, really, at least closer than what is regular between two people who barely know each other, but neither steps back. Castiel is about to turn his eyes up to the man’s face when he remembers his tears earlier. No need to put his red eyes on display.  
“I figured… Since I’m your playmate…  
“Playmate?”  
“-Which is what we from now on will refer to me as-“  
“Okay.”  
“…Shouldn’t we at least be, I don’t know, in the same room? Or at least on the same floor level?”  
“No. Write your book while you’re here. I don’t want you to pretend to enjoy my company.”  
He begins to shut the door, fully aware that he’s being impolite, but Dean doesn’t allow it to close.  
“I know this must come as a shocker, considering how rude you are right now, but what if I want your company?”  
“You don’t.”  
“Come on, Cas, don’t shut me out.”  
“It’s Castiel.”  
“Let me in.”  
“Fine, but what for? So that you can fall asleep in my bed?”  
He allows the man to push the door open again.  
“Maybe later, I was planning on being mysteriously quiet to begin with.”  
The comment shouldn’t touch him, but it does. His cheeks start to blush although he tries not to be ashamed of his habits, and Dean’s grin widens before him.  
“You should watch your tongue, mister, there are plenty of nice babysitters out there if I ever feel like replacing you.”  
“You wouldn’t dare.”  
Dean stretches out onto the bed and rests his head against Castiel’s favourite pillow. Despite himself, Castiel feels the corners of his mouth pulling into a smile. A natural smile. A no effort smile. Maybe this isn’t such a bad idea after all.

\---

This is a really bad idea. If he really wants to, he can write a book on his spare time, although his free hours are few and often spent sleeping; he doesn’t need to be employed as a playmate to a severely depressed/disordered/disturbed man. He should call Gabriel right now and back out of the deal, to state that he’s a writer and not a caretaker and that Castiel most likely needs professional help.  
But he doesn’t want to fail the burrito by his side. Castiel looks like a small, immobile child with blank eyes and it would take far more heartlessness to leave him right now than Dean can muster up. It might be the fact that Castiel is the younger brother that gets to him. If Sam were here, there wouldn’t be a question about it; he would sit day and night by his side. It pains him that Gabriel doesn’t feel that way.  
“Your brother.”  
“Hmm? What about him?”  
“Why isn’t _he_ here? If he wants you supervised, as you put it?”  
“I asked him not to be.”  
“Why?”  
“He wouldn’t leave me alone. He’d spend entire days with me, only leaving me alone when I went to the bathroom, and it drove me nuts. I love him but there’s only so much I can take.”  
Come to think of it, Sam would probably throw a fit too if they were to spend 24 hours a day together. Come to think of it, so would Dean. They can barely keep from fighting during five minute car rides.  
“And now he wants me to drive you nuts?”  
“Only 90 minutes every Monday to Friday.” Castiel pauses and turns to look at him. “Wait, isn’t your time up?”  
“Technically, yes. I have 90 minutes scheduled with you, but then 5 hours scheduled to work on the draft that I’m supposed to be writing about you.”  
“Oh.”  
“So, since I’m not writing anything, we technically have…” He pauses to count. “390 minutes to spend.”  
Castiel falls silent and Dean curses himself; in what world would this man want to spend 390 minutes every weekday with him? Why couldn’t he just say that he had time on his hands today?  
“But don’t hesitate to throw me out whenever you grow tired of me.”  
“Oh, I won’t.” The man hesitates. “Grow tired of you, I mean.”


	4. Chapter 4

They don’t do much as the afternoon passes; in fact, Castiel spends his time the way he would have without the writer in his bed, listening to dialogues and monologues in his head and forgetting that he has a physical body. When Dean readies himself to leave, Castiel watches him get up, a drowsy look on his face brought on by an unexpected nap. Something flutters in his stomach. Dean’s t-shirt is wrinkled and his hair is messy and a part of Castiel that he has long believed dead and buried springs from its grave. Attraction. It shows up like a long forgotten devil on his shoulder, aiming a finger at Dean and whispering into his head what he already knows, that the man before him is attractive, that he finds the man before him attractive, that he could reach a hand out and pull the man back into his bed – and for once, Castiel feels a want to do something, a drive, a motivation, call it whatever you’d like, but this is the first one he’s felt that hasn’t been related to his darned brother – for… Years. It is more than welcome.  
So when Dean leaves the room, Castiel follows, although he’s not entirely sure why or what he’ll do. Clearly surprised with being so uncharacteristically walked to the door, Dean halts before leaving the house, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder and trying to determine whether to wave, shake a hand or give an awkward hug goodbye, and Castiel’s head clears of thoughts while watching him. He wants to pin the man to the wall. His body, having spent years forgotten, to ram into Dean’s without as much as a forewarning. To have the motion knock the breath out of them both, to fling himself into the man’s arms, to feel that smile pressed to his lips. Dean settles on waving a hand and Castiel is too paralyzed with intoxicating desire to wave back as the man exits through the door.  
The realization takes some time to sink in. He hasn’t felt attracted to anyone since, since when? He’d had a fling with a woman on a non-significant press conference in what seems like, and probably is, years ago, and before that, he’d met someone at the Pulitzer luncheon, and there had been a man, a co-worker, whom he grew close to in Kabul. If there was anyone before them, they weren’t of importance, or he would’ve remembered them. 40 years and he’s about as experienced as a teenager who can count their ex-lovers on their fingers. He resists the urge to declare himself pathetic again since he has no time for another meltdown right now; he has to call Gabriel.  
“Cassie? What’s up? I can’t remember the last time you were the one to call me.”  
“Yeah, well, I needed to talk to you.”  
“So, tell me, what are the bad news?”  
“I need you to fire Dean.”  
“Why?”  
“It’s not working.”  
“He told me it is.”  
“I’m serious, I don’t need a babysitter.”  
“He’s not your babysitter.”  
“And he’s not my ghost writer. Can we drop the act?”  
Gabriel sighs on the other end.  
“I was hoping…”  
“What? That I’d open up to him?”  
“No, I knew you wouldn’t, but… I thought… I thought you would be frustrated by having someone else doing the writing since that used to be your job.”  
“I don’t get it,” Castiel mutters while pinching the bridge of his nose. Why does his brother want to frustrate him? Isn’t that counterproductive?  
“I thought some stubborn part of you would protest and start writing a book of your own, just to prove me wrong, just to show that you don’t need anyone to write for you.”  
“And you honestly thought that would work?”  
“As I said, I was hoping.”  
His stomach drops. Hearing his brother lose hope is like taking a punch, only Castiel has lost count of how many punches he’s gotten over the years; over how often he’s failed to fulfill his brother’s hopes and expectations. Since he doesn’t answer, Gabriel continues.  
“You need a passion to get you up in the morning. You used to love writing, it seemed logical.”  
“I don’t anymore”  
“Don’t we all know. But you used to love it. I cleaned out the house last week and found some of your fictive stuff from ages ago. Your handwriting has improved considerably since, thank God.”  
“Oh no.”  
“And they’re nice.”  
“They’re horrible.”  
“They’re hopeful. Happy. Not the pessimistic, condescending, we’re-going-down stuff that you wrote for the magazines.”  
“Exactly – they’re happy because they’re fiction, because I made them up.”  
“And what if you were to set your mind to it right now, to write something happy, if only to challenge that head of yours? It’s not as if being momentarily optimistic can hurt you.”  
“I can’t be optimistic, not like you.”  
“Because what I have is a natural talent that is completely unforced.”  
The voice sounds a little strained, sarcastic, tensed. Castiel feels his mouth go dry.  
“It isn’t?”  
“Of course it isn’t, but I put some effort into being happy, I try. Why won’t you for a change?”  
The line cuts and Castiel feels his head explode with thoughts, although only one is coherent. _What’s the use?_

\---

The door is open as usual and Dean kicks his shoes off before approaching the kitchen. His initial feeling of reluctance as to being Castiel’s glorified care-taker is gone. Sure, he’s supposed to be a writer, but to be paid for hanging around in this house, lying in bed and wasting time with Castiel… It’s not a bad deal. Plus, his pay is still that of a writer, so the only thing he’s losing is a little dignity. If you can call care-taking undignified.  
No coffee is on, which does take him by surprise. Castiel mustn’t be up yet, although so far, he’s been a morning person. Not entirely sure how the intricate coffee maker works, he fills up on grounded beans and water and pauses by the kitchen window as the pot starts to fill up. The house is situated just outside of town, in a wooded area, and large pines, a strip of overgrown grass and morning sunshine can be seen out there. Somehow he doubts Castiel has left his house of late. The man might be surprised to notice that it’s summer.  
He finds cups after rummaging around in the cabinets and hesitates as to whether he should pour some for Castiel too. For all he knows, the man might continue sleeping for another few hours. So he takes a seat by the table with his own mug, marvelling at how at home he feels already, while playing around with words and ideas in his notebook. He used to blame his unwritten book on a lack of time, but now with time on his hands, he fears he might have to confront the actual reason. None of his ideas are ever solid. He can’t stick with one. There must be a thousand intros on his computer, in which he introduces a character, a setting, a story, a background, but as soon as he’s written one or two chapters, another idea comes along and steals his attention. Resuming one of his old ideas is out of the question – whenever he opens up one of those documents, his words seem to have taken on a dated, childish fashion. No, he needs something new, something mind-blowing, something large and striking but at the same time subtle and smart. Like a story about a man who wakes up as a new person every day, only, he has no intentions of writing about Castiel. The man would be furious with him.  
Maybe he ought to wake him up, give him some coffee, prompt him into getting a shower and having some breakfast. He’s been given no instructions in what kind of care-taking he’s supposed to do, except for ‘engaging’ Castiel in something, whatever that means. But he won’t be able to engage the man if he’s asleep.  
Trying to tune his mind into caring thoughts, he pours coffee into the other cup and ascends the stairs. He knocks on the door.  
“Go away.”  
The voice is muffled. Dean resists the temptation of obeying.  
“Can I come in?”  
“Leave me alone.”  
“I have coffee.”  
A few seconds pass.  
“Okay.”  
The sun is filtering into the room through the window. Whoever designed the house used the windows cleverly, placing them to let sunshine in at all times of the day. The beams reach Castiel. He’s lying, face down, on top of the duvet. His torso is bare and his back broad in the warm light and his pyjama bottoms are the same as those he wore the other day; fine white and light blue stripes. Dean halts in the doorway with the coffee, feeling his chest swell, because he would work for free if he were to see such a sight every morning.  
“Are you alright?”  
The words sound positively ridiculous, but he can’t help himself. He’s never known someone who’s been depressed before and he has no clue what questions are appropriate or not. He had googled a little, but it had left him more confused than to begin with. Dysfunctional moods, it had said, that interfere with one’s social and everyday life. Emotions that cripple, mood swings and despair. He’d thought of Castiel’s shaking shoulders, how he had laughed and labelled himself as pathetic, only to end up angry and distant a few seconds later, and how Gabriel had described him as a cactus, how the brother himself isn’t sure how to handle it, how therapists allegedly couldn’t handle him, although that's probably an exaggeration. The man lying in the bed right now seems more miserable than aggressive. Maybe he needs a softer approach. Someone who isn’t shoving so called “recovery” or “treatment” down his throat. Maybe Gabriel figured as much too, and wanted someone to engage Castiel in something small, such as a book project, to simply make the man partake in life for an hour or so per day to start with.  
He sits down on the edge of the bed and the man stirs, starting to sit up and letting out a groan. Dean ignores how his skin tightens into goose bumps.  
“You don’t have to get up.”  
Castiel turns to him. His face is pale and with small streaks left by the pillow. Dean hands him the cup and leans back onto the bed, putting his hands behind his head. If he keeps on staring, he’ll certainly make them both uncomfortable, but it proves difficult to turn his eyes away. Castiel’s features are masculine and strong and today they have an essence of vulnerability lingering in them that he hasn’t seen before, in the glassy eyes and vacant mouth. He wants to pull a joke to make those eyes fill with amusement, or at least annoyance, because they’re too empty at the moment, but his own mouth disobeys. What he says isn’t funny.  
“I’m not sure I can write a book.”  
It’s selfish, because he’s here to cheer Castiel up and this obviously won’t. It’s selfish, because he’s not trying to share and bond over things; he’s simply saying it to hear the words in his own voice, to confirm it to himself. It’s not even relevant, because the book is no longer needed. Really, he has no idea why he says it.  
“Why not?”  
The man doesn’t sound interested but he responds anyway.  
“I can’t write fiction.”  
Something sparks in the man beside him.  
“Really?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Neither can I.”  
The blue eyes have turned to him with intensity. Dean blushes although he hasn’t done anything and a hint of a smile shows on Castiel’s lips.  
“You’re a journalist, you’re not supposed to write fiction.”  
The smile dies. The blue eyes dart away. The chest angles away from him, the head turns, the hands clutching the coffee cup tense.  
“I’m not a journalist anymore.”  
Dean wants to reach out and touch his face, to turn it back to him, because the words were in no way meant to push him away. Instead, he hears his mouth rattle on as if it didn’t belong to him.  
“Obviously not, there’s not much of a scoop in here to write about, is there?”  
 _Behave yourself, don’t you dare mock the man, you’re going to get yourself thrown out._  
But Castiel turns back to him, smirking. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but it’s better than no smile at all.  
“I’m impressed, did you come to that conclusion yourself?”  
Dean feels himself break into a smile. If he responds to irony, the two of them are going to get along just fine.  
“No, your brother told me.”  
“I’m not surprised; Gabriel never learnt to keep his mouth shut.”  
“And you never learnt to open yours, according to him.”  
The blue eyes narrow, but they remain fixed, and Dean eagerly gazes into them. Normally, he’s not much for eye contact, but Castiel’s eyes are so expressive, he might miss out on half of his reply if he were to look away from them.  
“Gabriel overshares, according to him I under share.”  
“Why?”  
“Why do you care?”  
Dean quiets, stopping himself from saying something stupid like _it’s my job_. But Castiel seems to expect an answer so he clears his throat to save some time.  
“I’m curious about you.”  
“Curious?”  
“Yeah.”  
“I’m about as boring as they come. You can read my life story on Wikipedia if it genuinely interests you.”  
“You have a Wikipedia page?”  
“Unfortunately.”  
“What does it say about-“ Your depression, your burnout, your mental health, how should he refer to it? “-this?”  
“Why don’t you read it yourself?”  
“I don’t have my computer with me.”  
The man sighs, his naked chest heaving up and sinking down in a dramatic manner. Just lying next to him feels like an overstep, as if he’s interrupting something intimate. Dean’s stomach is alive with excitement despite the grim topic of their conversation.  
“It says I retired due to health complications. Gabriel was my manager back then, to some extent he still is, and he was in charge of what to tell the press.”  
A crease has grown between Castiel’s eyebrows, an unmistakable furrow caused by annoyance, and Dean zips his lips shut to keep from asking further questions. The lighter he treads on each topic, the better.  
Castiel drinks the last of his coffee and soon drifts into sleep. The furrow is smoothed out as his body relaxes. The sight is captivating and Dean rolls over onto his stomach, crossing his elbows before him and resting his eyes on the steadily raising chest, on the thin trail of hair down his stomach, on the narrow hips. It’s obvious that the body has taken a toll from strange eating habits; the veins on his arms are sticking out, the ribs show when he breathes and his cheekbones are underlined by dark hollows. Come to think of it, Dean has barely seen him eat. There were the grapes and he did prepare some eggs, but he hasn’t seen him eat a real meal, despite the many hours he’s already clocked in here. Maybe he ought to fix him some lunch.  
The sleeping body turns around and ends up throwing an arm around Dean’s back. For a few seconds, Dean can feel himself torn between shock and euphoria and he decides not to move a muscle. Lunch can wait.

\---

He wakes up hours later, knowing from the second he opens his eyes that something is different from what he’s gotten used to during the years he’s slept in this bedroom. Someone’s in his arms. Someone’s sleeping in his arms. He hasn’t shared this room with anyone. Or bed, for that matter.  
Dean.  
It must be. The figure in his arms is a small muscle mountain and one of his hands is resting on a lean, dressed stomach. Castiel’s eyes fixate on the hair just before him. He’s tempted to stick his nose in it to test what it smells like, but he’s paralyzed. A minute passes during which he frantically searches for the correct thing to do, but one of his arms is stuck underneath the man, explaining why it’s asleep, and he can’t pull away. Not that he really wants to, but heat radiates against him from Dean’s back and the more he tries to ignore their physical contact, the more his own body starts to react. Unless their unintentional spooning ends, he’ll make more than a fool out of himself.  
The man moves a little and Castiel holds his breath, praying the man will roll away, but he does the opposite. He pushes back into the embrace and Castiel has to bite back a moan at being pressed together with the hard flesh. For a second, nothing happens.  
Then Dean clears his throat.  
“Uh… Good morning.”  
His arm is still stuck; they’re still locked in embrace. Why doesn’t he move? Why doesn't he shy away?  
“I think it’s evening,” Castiel replies. His voice is thin. The man can’t possibly miss the erection that is so harshly pressed to his back; Castiel is sure as hell aware of it.  
“I guess we fell asleep.”  
“I guess.”  
His breathing is quickening. Dean must be deaf if he doesn’t notice.  
“I was planning on making you lunch, but I guess I could make dinner instead?”  
He says it so casually, as if they’re sitting next to each other on a couch or facing each other over a table. The man tilts his head, looks over his shoulder just enough to make eye contact, and Castiel can feel himself harden with need. The eyes before him barely react, but the eyelashes flutter ever so slightly, and Castiel knows he felt it. That he feels it.  
“Dinner sounds nice.”  
“I’ll go cook then.”  
Castiel only nods in reaction. Thankfully, the duvet covers them up to their waists, so when Dean breaks free from the embrace to walk out the door, Castiel and his arousal is well hidden. It would all have worked out just fine, if Dean hadn’t blushed the second before slinking out the door. It takes a little too long for Castiel to finally gain control over his body, because whenever he’s starting to calm down, he remembers Dean’s red cheeks, and the thought makes him rock hard again. Whatever Dean just did to him, it would shame Viagra.


	5. Chapter 5

He shouldn’t have done that.  
Dean’s doing the best he can with what exists in the kitchen: omelettes with bacon, some fried tomatoes, toasting some frozen bread back to life. His mind however is still on the second floor, feeling Castiel wrapped around him. It had been such a temptation and he had been remarkably weak, giving in without trying to resist. When Castiel put his arm on Dean’s back, all he had to do was turn his back to the man, pull the arm around him and roll into the embrace and he hadn’t thought once about what would happen if he were to fall asleep in that position. Silly, really, that he’d gotten so carried away, but it hadn’t felt fun to wake up. Well, at first, it’d been great. Spectacular, really. Castiel’s morning wood had woken him up better than any alarm clock. Only, how do you explain having cuddled up next to someone when they were sleeping, without their consent? Castiel must’ve been partly disgusted and partly embarrassed, and Dean had slid out before his own arousal was to complicate the situation any further.  
And now they’re destined to have dinner together and pretend not to remember that they just spooned. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to escape in maybe an hour. An hour. It would have been easier if he had left straight away and showed up tomorrow, pretending to have developed retrograde amnesia over night, but since he needed an escape from the bedroom, he’d blurted out the proposition without thinking. Nice going; he’s been ticking off different ways to fuck tonight up with extraordinary speed, and he’ll no doubt continue in the same fashion. How in the world is he supposed to look Castiel in the eye without blushing? As if those eyes don’t make him blush enough already.  
Castiel shows up just as the food is ready and Dean tries hard to act normally, although he cannot make himself look away from the frying pan, from the plates, from the utensils that he places on the table. He can feel himself being observed.  
“You didn’t have to go through such trouble.”  
“What trouble? Frying eggs and bacon?”  
“True.”  
They sit, fleetingly daring to look at the other, and fill their plates with what has turned out to be a pretty acceptable dinner.  
“I can’t believe you found all these things in my kitchen, I haven’t bought any groceries in forever.” Castiel pauses. “I have Gabriel to thank for keeping me fed.”  
“He’s not doing a very good job.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
Castiel looks down at himself and Dean follows his eyes. The sweater he pulled on when making himself presentable for dinner is not the oversize type, yet it hangs a little loosely. Dean can’t help but to picture his hands underneath it and the solid body that they would touch.  
“Point taken. To my defence, I’m a horror story in the kitchen.”  
“Your coffee isn’t too bad.”  
Castiel shoots him a look, some mixture between murderous and amused, and Dean feels his first blush coming on violently. He stuffs a forkful of eggs into his mouth to keep from blurting out something stupid and when Castiel chuckles, he’s close to chucking his toast at the man. After having had Sam taunt him about the blushing all his life, he really shouldn’t be able to feel ashamed about it, but he’s starting to notice that nothing is normal with Castiel.  
As if on cue, they glance at each other, and neither wanting to be the first to break away, find themselves locked into eye contact for a moment too long. Castiel takes a bite of his toast without breaking it off and Dean is tempted to watch his lips as he chews instead, or maybe his jaw, but the blue irises refuse to let him go. Despite their expressiveness, he can’t make out what they’re signalling, if anything. All he knows is that they’re captivating.  
A sound interrupts them and Castiel pulls out a phone from his pocket.  
“Would you mind?”  
“Not at all.”  
His thumb swipes across the screen before lifting the phone to his ear and Dean watches, his eyes glued to Castiel’s large hands and fingers.

\---

“Yes?”  
“Hi Cassie, it’s me.”  
“I figured, no one else calls me.”  
“Right. I just wanted to apologize for yesterday, I was a dick.”  
“Not that I don’t agree with you, but could I call you back later?”  
“What for? Are you busy?”  
The question is ironic and Castiel can’t help but to rub it in his brother’s face, that yes, he is busy.  
“You’re interrupting my date.”  
Dean’s face forms the shock that Gabriel sounds. Frankly, their mutual reaction is hilarious. It’s a relief to for once grin massively without having to fake it.  
“Date?!”  
“Dean’s a really good babysitter, he even makes me finish my vegetables.”  
To mark his statement, he spikes the last tomato slice with his fork and shovels it into his mouth. The shock on Dean’s face is replaced with a smile that crinkles up the corners of his eyes. His plump lips thin as they stretch. God, they’re more appetizing than the food.   
“He’s still there?”  
“Yup.”  
“And he’s feeding you? Give him my gratitude, will you?”  
Castiel covers the phone with his hand and swallows.  
“Gabriel says hello.”  
“Good thing I didn’t fire him, huh?” his brother continues and Castiel watches Dean carefully to make sure he didn’t hear, but the smile hasn’t subsided.  
“Yeah, anyway, I’ll call you later.”  
“Don’t kiss on the first date.”  
“Goodbye, Gabriel.”  
He taps the screen and puts the phone down. Dean is still smiling, albeit smaller now, and Castiel can’t help but to sigh with even more relief. The awkward situation he had expected to follow their earlier nap is nowhere to be seen. The slight tension in the air, their mutual nervousness and the shy glances are not what he’s used to, but they’re not agonizing; quite the contrary. Rather than counting the minutes until Dean announces that he has to leave, he wouldn’t mind for the man to stay; preferably in the comfort of Castiel’s bed, in which they’ve both proven to sleep fairly well. So when Dean rises to collect the dishes, Castiel scrambles around his head for some prolonging suggestion to make.  
“Coffee?”  
“Thanks, but no. I’ve already had too much today, I won’t be able to sleep.”  
“It didn’t seem to bother you before.”  
Dean drops a plate. It clatters into the sink but doesn’t break.  
“I should probably get going,” he says. “It’s late and I have to get up early to get here on time tomorrow.”  
“You could stay here.”  
It’s not his own words; it can’t be. His previous self might have said something of the kind, but not this Castiel, not Castiel of today. Gabriel would have been on top of the world if he had overheard them. Maybe Dean considers this too, and understands how rare the proposal is, for he pauses before answering.  
“Are you sure?”  
“Yes.”  
The answer comes instantly, leaving no room for doubt as to Castiel’s sincerity, not even to himself. He is sure, and it frightens him. He’s positively sure that having Dean stay at his house for an entire night is the most perfect idea he’s ever hatched, and he’s also sure that wanting Dean around is a step towards caring, towards attachment, towards complications, towards anything and everything that can later on cause him pain of all kinds of measures. But when asking a gorgeous creature to spend the night at your place, you don’t consider the consequences, at least Castiel doesn’t, because whatever consequences may follow, they pale in comparison to the infinitely green eyes staring down at him.  
“Alright, then,” the plump lips say.  
Alright. But it isn’t alright. He’s about to have Dean here for a sleepover, how is that alright? What do they do now? How in the world is he supposed to keep the man occupied? That is, in an appropriate way?  
The man continues to put the dishes into the dishwasher as if nothing has happened and Castiel swallows his worries down to wherever they came from. Dean isn’t expecting to be taken care of, dammit; if anything, he’s the one who’ll be taken care off. In an appropriate way, that is. His cheeks start to burn.  
“Don’t tell me it’s contagious.” Dean’s watching him and grinning, probably happy to not be the one doing the blushing for once. “What are you thinking off?”  
 _You and me, back in my bed, not asleep this time._  
“Thanks for dinner,” he says instead.  
Dean tactfully goes along with it.  
“You’re welcome.”  
Then a silence spreads in the kitchen during which neither moves, as the dishes are now neatly packed away, and what should feel awkward isn’t. Dean’s eyes are no longer flickering around and neither is his own; the two are at ease, as if the bed has been moved down one floor from the bedroom to the kitchen. Not a part of him is tensed from having to socialize; it doesn’t even feel like socializing, where you always need a motivation for your actions (or inactions). They’re co-existing, currently just standing around in the kitchen, and Castiel reluctantly admits to how this is a big step in what Gabriel refers to as the right direction. Dean is leaning on the kitchen counter with his arms crossed and not a single part of him, not a finger or foot, is jerking with impatience. He emits a form of peace and a sense of understanding, although he’s already admitted to not fully understanding, that erases any need for excuses and explanations. Almost like parents with mentally handicapped children who show tolerance and patience even when their children scream and throw fits.  
The thought is depressing and it infects the purity of the evening. Dean’s his caretaker. They shared dinner because Dean wants to see him fed; Dean’s staying overnight because he couldn’t say no when the asocial person asked to hang out; because Castiel is a little mental freak show that could use some extra supervision.  
Without talking, he motions for them to go up and he listens to Dean’s light treads on the stairs beside him. He opens the door to one of the guest rooms and motions with his arm in an unenthusiastic gesture.  
“Will this do?”  
A small gasp sounds, as if Dean was beginning to say something and chose not to. He recovers quickly and smiles.  
“Thanks, this will be great.”  
“I’ll see you in the morning.”  
“Okay.”  
He walks the few feet to his bedroom and closes the door firmly behind him. Great. It’s the first time since forever during which he wouldn’t mind spending time with someone, and of course that someone is paid to keep him company. No doubt the man’s exhaling buckets of air over not having to spend more of the evening together.

\---

Did he do something wrong? When Castiel had signed for them to go upstairs, he’d tingled with the unspoken words of what was to come, only to find himself discarded in one of the guest rooms. Sure, their nap hadn’t been planned, but Castiel had after all grown pretty erect on him, and asked him to stay the night, so he had assumed the man to be interested. Guess that’s not the case. He must have seen signs that weren’t there.  
He lies down on the bed in which Castiel has never slept. Four days have passed since they first met and it’s safe to say that Castiel has left different impressions on all four days, but none as strong as that of today. The feeling of the man pressed to his back haunts sleep away and Dean twists into the sheets for hours, unable to think of anything but the man who’s just a few feet away. He’d been set on not becoming romantically involved with him, that is, until today. The urge to resist his obvious attraction to the man had vaporised in Castiel’s bed and he’d caught himself flirting and blushing like a smitten school girl during their dinner. Not to mention how his stomach had positively become a mess of butterflies when Castiel had described tonight as a date. What had changed? The fact that a book is no longer at risk? That he has nothing to lose?  
Was it ever about the book for him? Is it ever about the book? About writing it? About how well it sells and how much money it makes and how many people read it? Or is it the intimate storytelling and the mentioning of healed scars and the possibility to aid people in accepting their life that pulls at him? It would explain why he never writes on his own.

Sometime in the early hours, he ends up falling asleep. There is only so much you can dwell on the obvious, and frankly, to say that Dean dwells on his unrequited love would be to lie. A hope, small and tucked away in a secret corner of his mind that he refuses to acknowledge, keeps the worst anguish at bay, and when he wakes to his alarm clock, “Good morning sunshine”, he’s settled on one thought – it’s not over yet. As Castiel had said, they had a date last night, and having a date doesn’t equal ending up in the same bed, shagging each other’s brains out. At least not all dates.  
So he climbs out of bed and dresses in yesterday’s clothes, finds the bathroom and washes up; to his surprise, he finds spare toothbrushes in one of the drawers, one of which he shamelessly nicks. The Dean that stares back at him has seen better days and Sam would make endless of jokes regarding the shopping bags beneath his eyes, but overall, he’s an okay sight. Acceptable. A few old lovers have found him attractive in this state before and if he’s lucky, Castiel won’t be too picky compared to them. If he even cares at all.  
Which he most likely doesn’t, because the man has no interest in things, no matter how attractive.  
Oddly enough, this is a comforting fact, as if yesterday’s rejection is due to Castiel and not Dean; as if the problem isn’t Dean the way it tends to be. He scowls at himself for thinking in such terms, as the last thing Castiel needs is to be defined as a problem, but the thought nonetheless fuels him. What if he could solve it by awakening the man’s libido? It hadn’t been too difficult yesterday. If the only problem is Castiel’s inability to care, then all he has to do is make the man care.

The other day, he had planned to behave. Today, he knocks onto Castiel’s door, wondering if he’ll manage to seduce the man. A muted ‘whatever’ welcomes him in and he presses the door handle down, mentally preparing himself for what image he’ll find in there - preferably one including nudity.  
The bed is in a state of chaos. Pillows, which are in abundance, have fallen down to the floor and litter the wooden planks with squares of light green, white and stripes. The duvet is a dark olive green, which he managed not to notice yesterday and it covers and wraps Castiel up to his chin. His head lies directly on the mattress. Dean can’t help the selfish delight he gets from seeing that he’s not the only one with shopping bags.  
“Sleepless night?”  
The man might look tired, but he’s quick to shoot a loathing glare in response.  
“What do you want?”  
His voice is droopy and rough and it goes straight to Dean’s head. He doesn’t bother picking up pillows or taking a seat on the edge; he uninhibitedly lies down in the free space of Castiel’s bed and turns to his side, enough to face the man. Castiel makes no attempt to protest – he doesn’t react at all – and Dean is ready to start a tug of war over the duvet when the thought comes to mind: what if Castiel is sporting that morning erection of his today too? So he leaves the duvet alone.  
“Any plans for today?” he attempts. The question has an obvious answer and he regrets asking it straight away, for the only thing he does is highlight how Castiel hasn’t got plans. He should’ve considered his strategy before coming in here.  
“Do you really have to ask?”  
“Stupid question, my bad.”  
But although it’s a stupid question, it’s the best one he can think of. There are only a few topics that he would dare bring up without risking to say something wrong, and discussing the weather isn’t productive in the terms of seduction.  
“I was thinking…”  
He pauses while waiting for some reaction and Castiel takes a few seconds too long before talking, and when he does, he sounds anything but interested.  
“Yeah? About what?”  
“When will your kitchen be restocked?”  
“Don’t know.”  
“Today?”  
“Nah, Gabriel’s busy on Fridays.”  
“Tomorrow then?”  
Castiel props himself up on an elbow, clearly annoyed. The bed hair is aggressively tousled.  
“Does it matter?”  
“You barely have any food at home, I was wondering if maybe you’d want me to get some for you.”  
The annoyed look melts away.  
“That’d be nice.”  
“You could come along.”  
The annoyed look returns.  
“No thanks.”  
“Alright.”  
They lie quiet for a few minutes and Dean repeatedly glances over at the man to assess whether the annoyance is still there or not. Minutes turn to half an hour, then an hour, and Dean's repeated glances turn to a steady gaze. Castiel's eyes are fascinating and frightening simultaneously; beautiful and vacant, like a perfectly painted piece of art that lacks the vital touch of impulse and soul. It's all the more scary to realize that Castiel's eyes aren't alone in being empty; the man is but a breathing body. Hadn't it been for the few moments of life, such as when Castiel blushed or when he became passionate about deceiving his brother, Dean might have thought it too difficult of a challenge to seduce the man. It’s still one hell of a challenge though, to interest someone who isn’t interested in vital things such as food, but it's worth a shot.  
"You didn't bring coffee today?"  
The blue eyes turn their focus on him and Dean struggles to remember what question he's supposed to answer.  
"I haven't been to the kitchen yet."  
"Shall we, then?"  
Castiel untangles himself from the duvet, gets up onto his feet and reaches a hand forward. Without hesitation, Dean takes it and allows himself to be dragged out of bed. When Castiel attempts to let go, Dean tightens his grip, and for a moment, he feels the stroking of a thumb over the back of his hand. The motion must have relaxed him, for his grip loosens, and Castiel pulls free.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean leaves for the grocery store by lunch. He leaves a curiously empty space behind him, even though Castiel spent hours last night wishing the man was anything but here. He must be sending out all kinds of mixed signals, but to be entirely honest, his mind isn’t revolving around Dean, it’s revolving around himself. They haven’t known each other for a week, yet Castiel can feel his body swell with emotions he thought would never return to him, emotions he’s declared a thing of the past. The mere prospect of having them returning had fired up his nerves and he’d ended up calling Gabriel in the small hours, too worked up to sleep, but his brother hadn’t been awake to answer, and if he had answered, he would’ve no doubt been a nightmare. So Castiel ended up going back to bed, cursing himself for having become so reliant on his brother, especially since the fear of repeating the process with Dean is now looming over him. Despite his best efforts, he’s still not the hermit he’d like to be.  
It’s not that he doesn’t want people in his life (although solitude would suit him fine); it’s that he doesn’t want people he cares about around him. The knowledge of how he’s wearing Gabriel down is far enough to deal with already. To have another Gabriel searching for a non-existent solution to his problem would give him nothing in the long run, except for possibly ulcers and heartache, and Gabriel is doing a fine job with that already. If he were to let Dean in, it’d be like investing money in the wrong share, like betting on the slowest horse, and Castiel has taken many risks in his life, but not since he stopped working. Everyday life is a struggle already. If he were to, God forbid, end up heartbroken over his ghost writer/nanny/playmate because he couldn’t keep his hands off… It’d be hell. Would he manage to continue if his previously safe bed was filled with memories of failed love, just for Gabriel’s sake? It would be to push it.  
So when Dean squeezed his hand and he impulsively found himself stroking the rough skin, he had pulled his hand free almost as if burnt, wishing he’d had more sense than to offer his hand in the first place. Only… Castiel’s body isn’t of the same opinion as his head. His body is ravenous for touch and when Dean emerged from the bed, his t-shirt having crawled up to reveal a strip of skin above the brim of his jeans, he’d been so close to pulling the man into his arms with no intention of letting go. Holding his hand had been a poor, short-lived substitute and he had scurried off to the kitchen, fearing he would act foolishly otherwise. They’d had breakfast in silence.  
Gabriel calls when Dean’s been out for a while.  
“Castiel? Are you okay, is everything okay?”  
“I’m fine.”  
“ _Fine?_ ”  
“I mean, I’m well. Really.”  
“Then why’d you call me in the middle of the night? Has something happened?”  
“No, I was… A little low, but it’s all good now.”  
“Are you sure? You know the deal, I’ll have you skinned if you sugar-coat stuff.”  
“I’m not sugar-coating anything, I really am well.”  
“Okay. So, why were you low?”  
Castiel sighs, glances to the door and decides to be honest, the way he just promised. A part of him is paranoid whenever he tells half-truths or lies to Gabriel and he needs no more paranoia; he needs actual advice as to whether listen to his head or body – although, a part of him knows he won’t like the advice Gabriel will give him.  
“He slept here tonight.”  
A second passes.  
“Why would that make you low? That’s great, Cassie.”  
“Is it?”  
“Yes! I’ve tried to hook you up at least a dozen times, haven’t I always said that a relationship is just what you need?”  
“He didn’t sleep in my bed and we’re not in a relationship.”  
“So? Invite him to your bed tonight instead, what’s stopping you?”  
“I’ll fuck it up.”  
“No, you won’t.”  
“I’ll fuck it up royally.”  
“No, Cassie, you won’t. You’re making assumptions based on your negative mind-set and you’re going to shoot yourself in the foot if you don’t take this chance.”  
The therapists seem to have rubbed off on Gabriel; it sounds as if he’s quoting them.  
“This isn’t a chance, it’s a risk.”  
“It’s an opportunity. Just… Do what you want to, now that you finally _want_ to do something.” He pauses. “Do I need to remind you that your disinterest in life is approaching its five year anniversary? You haven’t desired anything in five fucking years; don’t you think it’s time for you to indulge, now that you finally want something? Dammit, Cassie, I’m going to call him and have him tie you to the bed if you as much as-“  
“No, you won’t.”  
“And you won’t ignore this, do you hear me? What if this is the moment we’ve been waiting for?”  
Castiel resists the urge to correct his brother; _the moment you’ve been waiting for_.  
“And what if I end up hurt?”  
“Then I’ll kill the man and find you another one, who cares? You’re getting ahead of yourself.”  
A silence falls and Castiel can sense that Gabriel is holding back, that he has thousands of lectures to give but knows none of them will work.  
“So what if you might end up hurt? If you fall in love, out of love, become heartbroken? You owe it to me, Cassie, to at least try.”  
He’s using ‘Cassie’ freely today, as always when trying to talk his brother into something. When they were younger, it’d driven Castiel furious. These days, it’s second nature.  
“Guilt tripping me, are we now?”  
“Yes, for your own good. You might end up with a hot one night stand, or even a lover, and you’re acting as if someone’s offered to chop your head off. Can’t you hear it yourself, how ridiculous you sound? This is a good thing. Now, go get that man before he leaves for the weekend.”  
“That’s another thing.”  
“What is?”  
“You pay him to be here.”  
“So? People can have multiple motivations, you know that.”  
“But-“  
“Have sex with the man, Castiel, do you need me to give you an order?”  
“But-“  
“Just do it, like Nike says. The worst thing that can happen is that you miss this chance.”  
Click.  
Castiel has to keep from calling his brother back up. Gabriel enjoys having the last word and fighting with him wouldn’t change a thing, but the habit always gets on his nerves. As does the optimism; how can he take it so lightly? _So what if you might end up hurt?_ As if Gabriel could continue carrying him around if he were to grow even heavier with hurt; it wouldn’t be physically possible. No, he shouldn’t have sex with the man, it really isn’t an option. Gabriel is too optimistic for his own good; he’s not realistic. Not to mention that Dean is a person and not a healing device created for Castiel’s so far invisible sexual drive; no, how could he even consider any of it?  
The door opens and Castiel turns on the couch, still clutching his phone to his ear. It must be warm out, for Dean’s glistening with sweat, his hair looks damp and the shirt is glued to him as he struggles through the door with his hands full. Castiel barely manages to hold on to his phone.  
“Do you need help?”  
“Yeah, thanks.”  
The man extends a large, slightly over packed bag in his direction. Castiel takes it, reaches out for the other bag and accidentally grasps Dean’s fingers while trying to get a grip of the handles. Their hands touch only for a moment, Dean’s fingers warm against Castiel’s cool palm, and though his own head starts screaming for him to run, Castiel is spellbound by standing in the heat that radiates from the writer. He should turn to the kitchen and unpack, he wants to turn to the kitchen, but his body is revolting as if it cannot wait to obey Gabriel’s order. Dean is ready to leave too but he halts, a look of confusion on his face, as if their physical closeness has somehow escaped him. His short breaths reach down to Castiel, still carrying the smell of coffee, and when Dean’s now free hands close around his jaws, he cannot form an objection. Not that he would if he could.  
Dean’s hands are moist and hot against his pulse and rather than leaning in, the man pulls Castiel’s face to him. The green eyes grow closer without flickering away and although it happens so fast, each detail seems to last for minutes. Dean angling his head a little to the right; their noses parallel as the man pauses to breathe over his lips; the fingertips that dig into the skin behind his ears; the smile that appears in front of him and then melts away with lust.  
Dean’s lips lock down on Castiel’s as a weapon on a target; aggressively, destructively. Castiel’s opposition, whatever was left of it, crumbles instantly and his feet pushes him up onto his toes to force their mouths all the more together. This makes the smile return and Dean presses it to Castiel’s lips, locking and relocking them together with sudden ferocity. One hand leaves Castiel’s neck and reappears under his arm, wrapping around his waist and heaving them close. The shopping bags slides out Castiel’s fingers and he moans without meaning to, suddenly alarmed with how overcome he is with arousal, but unable to fight it. Dean’s eyes flutter open at the sound and no amusement linger in them; they have a darkened, impatient, next to senseless look about them and Castiel’s arms, having hung limply by his sides, flies up, his palms pressing the solid chest backwards and up the wall. They kiss again, having separated for only a second, and his lips part, tentatively tasting the stubble and wet lips as if he’s having an erotic dream from which he’ll wake up any second, but Dean’s hands are determined not to let him go; the hand on the small of his back is tightened into a fist around his shirt. It would take a crowbar to break them apart.  
Or an impatient cell phone.  
Dean groans when the sound from his pocket reaches them, and Castiel wants to beg him not to answer, but the arm around his waist is already gone.  
“It’s Sam, I have to take this,” he explains, but the hand in Castiel’s hair pulls them together for another kiss before he answers.  
“Make it quick, Sammie.”

\---

“Can you take her today?”  
“Today?” A note of desperation seeps into his voice. Not today. Not now. “Why can’t you?”  
“We’re understaffed, I have to take the night shift too.”  
“Fuck.”  
“Tell me bout it, everyone’s busy tonight, I even asked Jessica.”  
“She doesn’t like the dog.”  
“Exactly. If you can’t take her, I don’t know what I’ll do.”  
“Gee, thanks for the pressure.”  
“Please? Just walk her and give her some food so she’ll survive the night. I’ll be forever in your debt.”  
“Yes, you will.”  
“You’ll take her?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Thanks! I gotta go, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”  
Dean’s almost scared to put his phone down. It hadn’t been his intention to jump the man right here, in the hallway, and he somehow fears Castiel’s eyes will have taken on a judging look, although the man had responded quite willingly. To his relief, Castiel’s looking somewhat out of place, too.  
“I have to feed his dog,” he explains tamely.  
“Oh, okay. Now?”  
His cheeks start to blush and the feverish red spreads down his throat. He’s suddenly aware of how blushing isn’t his only physical reaction as to the moment, and according to the shrewd smile on Castiel’s face, he’s noticed so too.  
“No.”  
“Good.” The man picks the bags up and carries them in the direction of the kitchen, and Dean can’t help but to follow him with his eyes. “I’m not done with you yet.”  
The words send a new wave of blushing to his face and Dean leans back to the wall, listening to his ragged breath and realizing just how heated he is, as if the temperature of the room has risen without his notice. He pulls at his t-shirt to let some air cool him down, only, it’s not likely to make much of a difference.  
Castiel’s busy in the kitchen when he catches up. The fridge is slowly filling up and the kitchen starts to look as if someone might actually be using it. Not knowing what to do or say, he keeps quiet as to not be in the way, and relives their hallway drama. Castiel had stopped dead before him, as if he’d frozen by simply being close, and Dean had felt an overwhelming need to see his reaction if he were to kiss him right then and there, and boy, what a reaction he’d pulled; hadn’t Sam interrupted, the groceries would still be on the floor.  
The fridge door closes and a supernatural silence closes in on them, filling the air with tension as to what they’ll do now. Castiel scratches the back of his head where Dean touched him only minutes ago, displaying how the tension isn’t imaginary, and when he turns around to face him, their fleeting eye contact leaves both blushing. Castiel coughs.  
“So, anyway, sorry about that.”  
Dean can’t help but to smile.  
“ _Sorry_?”  
Castiel’s eyes flicker about and his body is unable to stand still.  
“Yes, I didn’t mean to, I mean…”  
He’s in obvious discomfort and Dean wants to close the distance between them and prove how there should be none. Instead, he fills in with the first word he can come to think of.  
“Oops?”  
They share a smile, something small and innocent, that is squashed beneath the heavy tension.  
“Yes, oops, exactly.”  
“I didn’t mind. And correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t I take the first step?”  
Castiel stills. Whatever thoughts were just circling inside that pretty head of his, they stop. A teasing smile comes to life and Dean’s exhale is audible.  
“So you’re the one to apologize.”  
“I’m not apologizing for anything.”  
“How rude.”  
“You have no idea how rude I am.”  
The smirk sinks.  
“Dean, I…”  
Uh-oh. For a moment, Castiel turns back into the empty man that he’s seen so many times by now, and a chilling feeling slinks down Dean’s back. He’s pushing his luck here; who knows what troubled thoughts are in there? Is he doing the man harm?  
“Yeah?”  
“This is probably not a good idea.”  
“It felt pretty good to me.”  
Castiel coughs again.  
“Well- Have you thought this through?”  
“No.”  
“Maybe you should.”  
“Why? I’m not confused.”  
“Dean, with me being me, don’t you think it would be better for us not to do this?“  
“What do you mean, you being you? That’s why I want you.”  
Blood visibly flows to Castiel’s face; it reddens dramatically.  
“I mean, I’m not fit for this.”  
“This? Sex?”  
“Is that all we were going to have?”  
It’s Dean’s turn to blush. Somehow, saying yes would feel like a lie.  
“Probably not.”  
“Precisely. And I can deal with sex, but, I’m… I’m too fucked for this.”  
“No, you’re not.”  
“I am.”  
“No, I’m telling you, you’re not.”  
“I hurt people.”  
The man is small despite his height; the thin body representing how small the man thinks of himself. It stings.  
“No, you don’t, Gabriel loves you and-“  
“I hurt Gabriel too.”  
“But you won’t hurt me.”  
“Are you sure? I’m ruined. I ruin people and I thought you should know so before getting involved with me, because I might ruin you too, even if I don’t want to. Especially if I don’t want to.”  
His voice falters to the end and Dean wants to reach out, to wrap his arms around the fragile thing that he just forced into spewing out secrets, but when he moves forward, Castiel moves backwards. Finally, his eyes flicker away.  
“Think about it.”  
Then the man slips out from the kitchen, and Dean finds himself unable to follow, for he’s stunned and scared. Not by the prospect of being ruined – but by the thought of Castiel as ruined. Could he be?

\---

They’ve known each other for five days, yet he’s telling Dean more than he’s told any therapist. His brother would be proud if he knew how well this project of his has turned out, but Castiel feels anything but proud. He’s wearing weak armour that no one’s pierced before and now he’s bleeding, badly. He stumbles up the stairs, feeling more like a wounded animal than a vulnerable person, and closes the bedroom door behind him with a slam. The key is in the keyhole, rarely used, but now he turns it. Will he ever dare to open up again?  
He plucks pillows from the floor, throws them into the middle of the bed, wraps himself up in the duvet and stretches out in the absolute softness, as if the surrounding will soothe the headache that is coming on. He’d known it all along, he’d known everything about this to be a mistake, he’d wanted out since the moment he found out he was in, because Gabriel will forever believe this to have been some ‘break in the case’ and that they only need to push a little further until it feels better. He’ll end up bleeding dry because they want to help.  
He hears a knock on the door but pulls a pillow over his head.  
“Cas?”  
Another knock. _Please, go away, go away, leave and never come back, please stay._  
“Cas, let me in.”  
The man tries to enter and finds the door locked.  
“Man, I promise, I won’t say a word, okay? I’ll be so quiet even you will be impressed.” He’s silent for a few seconds. “Promise. I’ll think about it all really good, okay, but only if you let me in.”  
And despite telling himself that he shouldn’t, Castiel goes to the door, dressed in the duvet as if it was his cloak to protect him from any intrusive questions. When he unlocks and opens the door, he finds Dean leaning on the doorway and the worried look on his handsome face is gut churning.  
“Don’t try anything,” he mutters while returning to the bed. Dean lies down next to him, closer than usual, and catches his eye for a moment.  
“Don’t worry.”


	7. Chapter 7

He keeps his promise. Silent like a kid having found joy in reading for the first time, he lies still, barely moving, with his eyes fixed on a point above Castiel’s shoulder. They’re lying facing each other, and it happens that they look straight into each other’s eyes for what seem small eternities, but mostly, they just lie there. His head is filled with all the words he wishes he could say and he tucks them away, one line at a time, as he realizes how useless they all are. You don’t heal a man who thinks he’s ruined; not with words.  
Hours tick by until Dean recalls Sam’s request, and he struggles out of bed. A hand lands on his arm, pulls him back, and the blue eyes appear before him wearing a look of terror.  
“You’re leaving?”  
Dean finds himself smiling.  
“I have to walk Sam’s dog, remember? I’ll be back in an hour or so.”  
The strong grip lets him go, and Dean halts in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder at the man. As if Castiel has caught himself misbehaving, he leans back onto the bed and turns his face away. All Dean can see is the profile and the prominent jaw that he held in his hands only hours ago. He had felt as if he would never let go, yet here they are.  
“I’ve thought it through, you know.”  
The profile tenses.  
“And?”  
“I want to try.”  
Castiel relaxes, then tenses, as if he’s unsure as to whether feel happy or not.  
“It’s a very bad idea.”  
“It’s a great idea.”  
“We’re going to end up hurt.”  
“I don’t care, and why the hell do you? You’re already hurt.”  
The man doesn’t reply, but he turns a little and his eyes are upset, as if he can’t believe Dean just said that, despite having said nothing but the truth. They stare at one another, but the blue eyes indicate no surrender.  
“Plus, if I ignore this, it’ll hurt too. So I figure, why not make the best we can of the situation?” He hesitates. “I’d rather hurt with you than without you.”  
The man blushes and Dean longs to throw himself into the bed with him, to upset the duvet and pillows and soak the sheets with sweat, but most of all, just to see Castiel the way he was before. There had been life in him, not only anxiety.  
“You’re good at haggling.”  
He always has been; it’s his stubbornness.  
“I am, aren’t I?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Does that mean you won’t be locking the door anytime soon?”  
The man turns, burrows into the pillows as if searching for something, and Dean’s stomach drops. _He’s going to reject me anyway._  
“I still think it’s a bad idea,” the voice sounds from in under the duvet. Dean leaves with that after waiting a few seconds for a follow up; repeating to himself over and over as he starts to drive to Sam’s place, that the man gave no definite answer.  
The drive takes about 20 minutes and he’s halfway there when the phone in his pocket vibrates. Not that Castiel has left his mind, but when seeing the unknown number, his mind doesn’t come to the right conclusion as if the likelihood is too small. The message, however, makes him jump.  
It’s a one word message but it says a lot.  
 **Okay**.  
And he knows who it must be from. The traffic suddenly seems so distant and he knows he shouldn’t be driving right now, even less while texting, but there is no place for pulling over and he simply has to answer.  
 **Cas?**  
A few long seconds tick by before the phone vibrates in his hand.  
 **It’s Castiel**.  
It is from him. Warmth spreads in his stomach like a piece of paper catching fire. Before he has time to second guess the action, he calls him up. Castiel answers immediately.  
“How did you get my number?”  
“Gabriel gave it to me.”  
The voice sounds warmer than earlier. It’s no longer trying to put distance between them. Dean has to concentrate before he remembers who Gabriel is. Gabriel, whom he’s never actually met, but who’s still given him more than he will ever be able to repay. The brother and manager and, hopefully, match maker. A short silence spreads while Dean encourages his beloved car to spin faster and his confused thoughts to make sense.  
“What did you mean? Okay?”  
The answer comes fast, delivered by a determined tone, and Dean can hear a smile in the voice. His belly curls at the sound.  
“Let’s try.”  
“Really?”  
“Really.”  
“No take backs.”  
The man on the other end chuckles.  
“No take backs,” he agrees. “How long will this dog walk take?”  
Good question. How long will it take to force a dog to pee, to give it some food and to drive back?  
“30 minutes, if I’m not arrested for speeding.”  
He’s way passed the speed limit already.  
“I’m waiting for you.”  
The car swerves and Dean lifts his shoulder, squeezing the phone to his ear to leave his hands free. He needs them both or he’ll end up sleeping in the ditch rather than in Castiel’s bed. The thought is distracting. _Focus, you’ve driven during worse scenarios, you can do this_. But his voice is shaky when he replies.  
“In your bed?”  
The chuckle returns and fills Dean’s belly with butterflies and heat. He can count Castiel’s every laughter since they met on his fingers, but if he keeps this up, he’ll run out of fingers. Imagine if he could make him laugh every day. _Every morning. Every evening. Before falling asleep, when waking up._  
“In my bed, alone, undressed, so don’t take too long.”  
His breath hitches in his throat. The sound is undoubtedly heard across the line and he has to find his voice before answering.  
“Are you trying to make me crash?”  
“No, I want you to turn around.”  
“The dog will pee everywhere and Sam will kill me.”  
Another chuckle.  
“Is this dirty talk?”  
Dean blushes and stutters a little.  
“No, not really.”  
He wants to beg Castiel not to mention anything dirty; the mere sound of his voice affects him too much already. Simultaneously, he wants to hear everything Castiel has to say. They share another short pause and Dean realizes he’s holding his breath.  
“Are you blushing?”  
“…No.”  
“You’re going to be blushing a lot tonight.”  
His knuckles go white around the steering wheel, or were they white already?  
“Is that a promise?”  
Seconds pass.  
“Dean-“  
The voice is serious and Dean wants to stop it, to stop Castiel’s head from interfering, before it has a chance to return to a safe distance. The irony; they’ve never spoken over a larger distance before.  
“You said no take backs.”  
“Who said I’m taking anything back?”  
“You’re not?”  
Silent laughter.  
“No, I was going to ask you to hurry.”  
“Believe me, I’ll hurry.”  
He hangs up when the house comes into view. It’s not much of a house, more of a cottage really, but Sam is dead proud of it. No other relative of theirs (who’s still alive, that is) has an actual house. They used to joke around about how the Winchesters are too mobile for a house; about how they should all drive around in a camper; about how they were designated flatmates. Dean had been surprised at how proud he himself was when he found out about the place. Sam’s ambitious, alright, and always has been, but to buy his own house from out of the blue: they’d all been impressed.  
But he has no time to be impressed today. The Impala steers onto Sam’s driveway much too fast; the gravel froths beneath the wheels. Dean jumps out the car without bothering to lock it, scrambles for the key and is attacked by Ruby the second the door opens. She’s even darker than he remembers: she was a light, almost golden puppy, and now she’s brown, close to black, as if her fur couldn’t decide on which colour to take on. They had joked endlessly about how she’d gone over to the dark side. Her tongue is alive with excitement and Dean has to push her away repeatedly to avoid getting her saliva all over; the opposite of what he’ll do once he manages to get back to Castiel’s. His face starts to burn and he hooks the leash to Ruby’s collar and hurries out into the garden, begging for her to pee, until she finally does. A neighbour raises an eyebrow to him, probably puzzled over his wording, but Dean doesn’t stop to explain how calling a female dog ‘bitch’ is grammatically correct. He pulls her back into the house and pours an excessive amount of food into her bowl, barely remembering to lock the door on his way out, and starts the car back up. The same neighbour watches him speed away, now with both eyebrows raised. He resists the urge to call Castiel, for it wouldn’t do him good to end up driving with a boner, but his impatience pushes the Impala in ways it hasn’t been driven before; he leaves a long trail of drivers swearing after having been cut off. Normally, it would’ve made him terribly ashamed of himself, but he can’t find it in himself to slow down. The image of Castiel’s flustered body stretched across the duvet is making everything else seem irrelevant.  
He makes the 20 minute drive in 12 but stops dead outside of Castiel’s door to catch his breath. For a split second, he imagines the door locked, and then he finds out that it isn’t.

\---

The house is silent the way he usually wants it to be. Five days ago, he’d heard the door open and he had cursed this world for bringing the ghost writer to his home. When the creaking of the door now bounces up the stairs to him, it stirs in his chest. This must be how sparklers feel when they are ignited. Steps weigh down on the hallway floor, then the staircase, then the floor of the corridor outside of the bedroom. The presence of his own desire takes up what has previously been empty space inside him and makes him heavy and strong in a way he can’t remember having felt before. He can hear as well as sense Dean’s hesitation outside, and not able to wait anymore for the man to come to him, he opens the door. Their eyes find contact at once and Castiel can’t help himself, but allows the duvet he has swept around his shoulders to sweep around Dean too. Cocooned together and eyes locked, he pulls the man into his bedroom. Dean’s hands sweep around his waist under the duvet and they inch a little down, politely staying at his hips, when Castiel presses their bodies together. The delicate blush on Dean’s face takes on a stronger colour, undoubtedly due to realizing that Castiel isn’t wearing clothes, and whatever was left of their patience melts away by the heat between their bodies.  
Their kiss is aggressive; neither has time for some pretty lip locking or smooth kisses; both are hungry, no, ravenous for the other. Dean’s hands pull impatiently at Castiel’s waist until their entire bodies align, including their tongues, and Castiel’s hands lose grip of the duvet to find Dean’s neck and hair. The writer is dramatically warm against his own flesh as if to high light further how Dean is pumping life back into him and he grips the blushing face while wishing to never grow cold again. It doesn’t seem likely he will any time soon.  
The duvet makes an irrelevant pile on the floor. They leave it, stumbling in the direction of the bed, Castiel currently unable to release Dean’s face and Dean smirking into the kisses as his hands glide down. Both gasp as his hands cup and squeeze Castiel’s arse, deliberately slow and harsh. Their kisses halt, they breathe into each other’s mouths, they cling to the other and feel how their blood is speeding faster than the Impala did, and Castiel knows that there will be no take backs again. Ever. No matter who risks getting hurt, he’ll never muster up strength to deny this from occurring. He won’t want to, either. His hands move and find Dean’s chest. They clench into fists around the fabric of his shirt and pull it up, off, forcing them to abstain from a kiss. The bare chest stuns him and causes his next kiss to grow sloppy, for all his focus is in his hands as they travel across the broad shoulders, down the chest muscles, through the scarce hair growth, over the oblique muscles and the hint of a V that stretches down into Dean’s pants. He only has to glance down to notice how strained the fabric of said pants is.  
“How did you manage to drive with that?”  
He whispers, for his voice feels unreliable. Dean’s hands are still busy with gripping Castiel’s arse and he barely pays attention to what is said.  
“Hmm? With what?”  
Castiel kisses him, both of their mouths falling open and their tongues swirling around the other, before the hand resting on Dean’s hip moves down. It slinks inside the pants without difficulty and finds Dean’s erection rock hard. Dean moans into his mouth in reaction.  
“This.”  
The man pressed to him laughs and his hips move, pressing impossibly closer. Castiel’s hand follows the pulsating length and Dean exhales over his lips while finally struggling out of his pants, leaving them naked, together, happy – which is long overdue.

Life doesn’t turn simple just because they’ve found each other, but he has to admit, waking up is a lot easier next to Dean. He finds himself smiling more often, which in itself is a miracle. He even forgives Dean for cracking under Gabriel’s cross examination and admitting to the nature of their relationship, but mostly because Dean looks so tormented with guilt, and because Gabriel is alive with joy for them. He’s ultimately still alone on the bad days and he’ll always be. But the good days are better, and if he’s not entirely mistaken, they are becoming more frequent.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I post here and I hope you liked it :) Thanks for reading!


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